Tangelo
by Vanaerys
Summary: Harry is desperately trying to get Hermione to notice him, and in his misadventures turns for help to none other than...Malfoy. Will Draco capture Hermione's heart for himself, or actually concede to playing Gryffindor matchmaker?


_Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine._

_Author's Note: I'm re-posting this because 1) It's way longer now, and 2) The original two chapters were too short to be considered chapters anyway. Oh, and please pardon the fact thatthere are NO BREAKS BETWEEN SECTIONS. I can't get it to work, and it's driving me insane.But whatever. Please review!_

_Skirt. Blouse. Vest. Stockings, shoes. Robe over the whole lot._

Hermione Granger grumbled as she dressed, haphazardly stuffing her wand, a scrap of parchment, and quill in her pocket and attempting bravely to drag a brush through her curly brown hair. She failed; the teeth got stuck in a snarl, and only after forcefully wrenching it free (along with a painful handful of hair and a stifled yelp) was she able to take her wand back out of her pocket and attempt to do something about the frizzy crow's nest sitting on her head.

She didn't particularly like using magic for beauty purposes (_Self-centered vanity_, muttered a voice in the back of her head), but in the case of her hair, she had finally had to concede that it truly was necessary. Of course, it was practically reflexive for her to groggily grab her brush in the morning; the amount of teeth missing from it was testament to that. But she had been born and raised in a non-magic household, and muggle habits died hard.

Finally daring to look in the mirror, she grimaced at her reflection. Yes, it was the same old Hermione looking back at her: dark blue eyes, puffy and rather red around the edges from lack of sleep, medium height and build for any normal teenage girl, muddy-colored brown hair, now considerably straighter and neater than it used to be, typical ink stain on her cheek...She rubbed desperately at it, succeeding in not only managing to take away the offensive blotch, but also turning her skin the same attractive shade of red that circled her bleary eyes. Oh well. She HAD been up until nearly two o'clock in the morning, studying obsessively for her Arithmacy, History, and Potions exams.

The Christmas holidays were coming up, and the teachers seemed intent on completing the final educational up-hill trudge before allowing the students the total let down that always accompanied any vacation. Not that she was ever particularly troubled by exams and schoolwork, but lately it seemed that Harry and Ron's study habits were beginning to rub off on her. Meaning, of course, that she had taken all the notes, but paid little to no real attention to their actual content. Hence the frantic late-night studying that had resulted in her sleeping in and missing breakfast this morning.

Snatching up her already-packed book bag, she headed down the dormitory stairs to the Gryffindor common room. It was completely devoid of any sign of student life, as she had expected, but it did have one occupant: her fluffy, sweet, and generally adorable ginger-colored cat, Crookshanks. He was curled up comfortably in one of the plush, red velvet armchairs near the crackling fire, purring at nothing in particular except the sheer joy of being a cat and able to spend his day as he saw fit. Which seemed to be sleeping and general lazing about, for the most part. He looked up as she approached, meowing softly in that very kitten-ish way she loved.

"Hallo, Crooks, you lucky cat," Hermione said, rubbing his ears until he squinted his lantern-yellow eyes with satisfaction and nuzzled her hand, the way cats do when they are very, very pleased.

She smiled benevolently down at him, his happiness easing some of her own irritability. She couldn't for the life of her understand why everyone else complained about him; even when Ron had shown her the four bloody scratch marks on his arm, she had been able to quickly deduce from his story that Crookshanks had been unfairly provoked (Ron had been trying to move the cat off of his homework, where he had been bathing in the weak winter sunlight trying to filter through the window). It had been Ron's own fault for putting his homework there in the first place; and besides, as she had reminded him, he hardly ever even _did_ it anyway, so what was he complaining about?

Reluctantly, Hermione gave Crookshanks a final stroke down his back and headed towards the portrait hole. She momentarily debated whether or not to go to breakfast and at least grab a bit of toast; she probably had enough time to do at least that. But she quickly decided against it -the Arithmacy classroom was a bit of a walk, and she wanted to be there in plenty of time for her first exam of the day.

Four hours, seven rolls of parchment, two broken quills and one massive writer's cramp later, Hermione was finished with the last of her exams (Potions). She was walking with Harry and Ron on their way to lunch, exhaustion due to lack of sleep the main thing preventing her from joining their lamentations.

"I still don't think my Shrinking Potion was supposed to be magenta, I really don't," complained Ron for about the eleventh time since Snape had announced the end of their allotted time.

"Oh, shut up already," responded Harry in their well-rehearsed dialogue. "I'm sure it turned out fine."

"You're one to talk, Harry-I saw what a drop of YOURS did to a bit of Neville's bag. Burned a hole right through it," Ron shot back.

"Er...Still. Snape would probably have failed us no matter how they looked. Or what they did." Harry said this last bit with a grimace, and then looked inquisitively at Hermione. "What do you think? You're awfully quiet today."

"Tired," Hermione sighed, her mouth watering at the delicious smells that emanated from the Great Hall, growing stronger as they neared. Skipping breakfast, in retrospect, had _not_ been a good idea. Especially seeing how her stomach seemed to be gnawing its way through to her backbone. "Don't worry about your potions, you two," she managed to get out before hurrying ahead of them to the Gryffindor table. "I'm sure they tasted...er, turned out...fine." Harry and Ron watched her go, shaking their heads in unison. As they followed at a slower, more sedate pace, Ron sighed dejectedly.

"I still don't think mine was right..."

Draco Malfoy lounged, eyes half closed, on a black leather couch in the Slytherin common room. He wasn't the only one there; a few other students either worked on homework at a large, mahogany table on the opposite side of the room, or just generally lurked about looking shifty, as Slytherins were wont to do. But Draco ignored all of them, preferring instead to just bask in the boredom that saturated his every pore.

Yes, he was bored. There was absolutely nothing to do, and virtually nothing he could do about it. Exams and classes were all over before the Holidays, and normally at this time he would be overseeing Crabbe and Goyles' packing of his belongings. But not this year. A few days ago, his father had sent him an owl telling him not to come home, giving no reason whatsoever.

Of course, it wasn't really as if it mattered to him. Whatever was going on probably wouldn't be any more exciting than usual; Christmas at Malfoy Manor was always a cold, dreary affair, and frankly, watching a stuffy group of old Death Eaters swap muggle-torturing stories just didn't really appeal to him.

A strand of soft, blond hair fell across his eye, and he lazily blinked it away with a sigh. He could always go seek out Potter and his cronies; they were usually good for a laugh. Or rather, they were usually fun to taunt, bait and generally be nasty to. But of late, even that past time had lost a bit of its appeal, for reasons he couldn't exactly put his finger on. He only really did it now because it was expected of him - the old feud between the wizarding houses and all that. When you really got down to it, people paid far too much attention to his reputation and none to him at all; minions were fine to bully and boss around, but only to a certain degree. It was very nearly depressing not to have any real friends, the way Potter did.

Quickly checking his thoughts before they went too far in the I'm-so-bloody-sick-of-Potter's-perfection-I-think-I'll-make-grass-sprout-from-his-nose-just- for-the-fun-of-it direction, Draco decided that what he needed was an adventure of some sort. Something too take his mind, at least momentarily, off of the world-weariness that seemed to be his life right now. It was _so_ cliché.

Yes. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. Adventure! Excitement! And a noticeable lack of lying around doing nothing! But...where did one find adventure? What adventure was to be found? It was a positive quandary. Getting slowly to his feet, he stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered outside. Maybe he should just go for a walk.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, the air was veritably thrumming with warmth and good cheer. It was eight o'clock in the evening, exams were finished, the students were well fed, and the Christmas holidays (or Chrimbo hols, as Ron liked to say) began tomorrow. Ron and Harry were bent over a low table in front of one of the room's three fireplaces, playing a violent game of wizard chess. Harry, as usual, was losing, although chess was really the furthest thing from his mind.

"Ha!" Ron crowed finally, sitting back. "Third game in a row!" Harry merely sighed, however, propping his chin on his hand and staring into the fire. He honestly didn't care.

"Bully for you, Ron," said Ginny for him. She was sprawled crossways in an armchair, reading a battered and much-coveted copy of _Weird Wizards: Why Guys Do What They D_o (the latest craze in the fourth-year girl dorms). "It's just a stupid game, anyway."

Ron glowered up at her. "Bet _you_ couldn't beat me."

"Bet I could." Marking her spot carefully, Ginny discarded the book and plopped herself on the floor, gently nudging Harry out of the way until she and her brother were nose-to-nose over the board.

"Watch and learn, little sister, watch and learn," Ron breathed, moving out the first pawn. Ginny snorted.

"I already did, _big brother_, and if what Bill told me about your strategies is correct...well then, this should be a fairly easy game." She giggled as Ron turned pink.

Farther away from the fire, Harry was becoming more and more worried. After lunch, Hermione had promptly disappeared upstairs to her room, firmly declining any and all offers of various after-exams celebratory activities.

That had been six hours ago.

Standing, Harry started to pace. What if something was wrong? What if she was sick? What if a psychotic homicidal serial killer had broken into the girls dormitories and...

Harry whimpered, then collected himself. He was being ridiculous. That had already happened to Ron, remember? And the psychotic serial killer had turned out to be Harry's godfather, so there wasn't much point in worrying about _that_ happening again. A boy could only have so many godfathers.

A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he turned to the youngest Weasely.

"Ginny? When was the last time you were upstairs?"

She twirled a strand of brilliantly red hair and stared at the chessboard.

"Um…an hour ago? Why?"

"Did you see Hermione while you were up there?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Of course. She was sound asleep."

"Are you sure?"

Ginny sighed exasperatedly and looked up at him. "Yes, Harry, I'm sure. She looked like nothing short of You-Know-Who blowing up Hogwarts would be able to wake her."

"Oh. Right." He paused. "Ginny?"

"What?"

"Er, you don't think he will, do you?"

"If you're so worried about her, Harry, you could always go up there and see for yourself."

Whether she was trying to be helpful or mildly vicious, Harry couldn't decide. Battling rampaging evil and saving the world at least once a year was fine and dandy, but…

"But that would be wrong!" He exclaimed, scandalized. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Whatever you say. Although I seriously doubt Hermione would mind," she added as an afterthought.

Too distracted to contemplate what she meant by that, Harry began to pace. Yes, it was ridiculous that he would be this worried, but…it _had_ been six hours since Hermione had gone upstairs, and a lot could happen in six hours. Besides, he had been hoping…

"Ron, I'm very certain your castle was _not_ there the last time I looked at the board," growled Ginny behind him.

"It was so," said Ron defensively.

"Was not."

"Was so."

"Was _NOT._"

Hoping what?

"Was _SO_."

"Ron, just shut up while I make my move."

Hoping he'd be able to work up the nerve to make his move and ask her out tonight, that's what. She wasn't going home for the holidays this year, seeing how Ron's parents had invited her Muggle mother and father to take a short vacation with them to America in the hopes that both sides would be able to learn more about each other ("People actually _let_ you drill _holes_ in their _teeth_ with that thing…to fix _other_ holes in their teeth? Fascinating!" Harry could just imagine Mr. Weasely questioning Hermione's dentist parents. They figured that since America was such a general mystery to all of them, they'd at least begin on even ground.).

"Ron, you do realize that moving your Bishop there leaves your Queen wide open to my Knight, don't you?"

"Of course. It's all part of my, um, Master Plan."

"I mean, not that I'm complaining – you've already taken your hand off it, so you can't changethe movenow."

"I know."

"Just thought I'd tell you."

"Thanks _so_ much."

"No problem."

But anyway, the point was that he _liked_ her. Maybe even loved her. And, while he had no idea if she felt the same way in return, he was darn well going to find out. Soon. Hopefully. If she ever came downstairs.

The more he paced, however, the more impatient Harry became. What if she slept all through the evening and night? He would have to wait until morning! How unromantic was that? Besides, he didn't think he could really wait that long. He was starting to lose his nerve already as it was.

A sudden cry of fury behind him made Harry jump. It was Ginny, and she seemed about to either macerate, mangle, or mutilate Ron. Perhaps even all three. However, much as Harry loved sweet, familial alliterations, he wasn't about to stay and watch. Ron and Ginny's fights could get quite dangerous.

Harry set off for the staircase to the girl's dorms. He wasn't sure exactly what he would do if Hermione didn't answer the door when he knocked, but at least he would be doing _something._

When Hermione woke from her nap, she felt completely and totally refreshed. Invigorated. Alive. Healthy. It was an extremely far cry from how she had started her day feeling, and she wasn't even that perturbed that she had slept through two meals in one day (supper being the second). If she really wanted, she could just go tickle the pear and raid the kitchens – after all, she had the time.

Getting out of bed, she showered and dressed simply, choosing a thick, red sweater and jeans. Grabbing a book, she decided to head downstairs and join everyone in the common room. Hermione was looking forward to curling up in an armchair and soaking up the holiday cheer and warmth in the company of her Housemates.

No one was more surprised than she, then, when she opened the door and Harry punched her in the face.


End file.
